


How to Fight a Dragon Army

by White_Squirrel



Category: Historical RPF, How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Dragon-Riding Joan of Arc, Gen, Hundred years' war, Stranded Hiccup, Time Travel, Viking Empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-04-07 04:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Squirrel/pseuds/White_Squirrel
Summary: After Drago’s defeat, Chief Hiccup is pulled into the future by a mysterious force to find a world where the Vikings have become a brutal empire bent on conquering the globe. Forcibly recruited to fight a dragon-riding Joan of Arc, he must find a way to restore peace to Europe and return home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon is the intellectual property of Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Studios.
> 
> Wait, this isn’t Harry Potter! What madness is this?!
> 
> Well, this is the only one of my fanfics that is not Harry Potter-related. Surprised? So am I, but the idea was too good to pass up. Vikings riding dragons is more than just a fun movie. It’s only a matter of time before they try to take over the world.
> 
> The Berkian part of this story takes place about a year after How to Train Your Dragon 2, and will obviously not be compliant with the third movie. I have, however, seen all of the TV and Netflix episodes as well as the movies, and I am using the online map that has the Barbaric Archipelago laid out in a rough cross in the Norwegian Sea with Berk at its center.
> 
> Please note that Jehanne will naturally be very AU compared with the historical Joan of Arc. My historical knowledge is only at a Wikipedia level, and I am also not a Catholic, but I have nonetheless endeavored to keep both her character and the theology in this story consistent, and I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Like the others stories I mentioned, this will be on the back burner for now, but I fully intend to come back and continue it. That said, I would be willing to talk about collaboration with anyone who believes they could write a worthy continuation to these chapters.

_Isle of Berk, Norwegian Sea_

_1105_

This is Berk. To us, it’s a nice place—the bright center of the Barbaric Archipelago. True, it’s a long flight north of an island that’s _named_ for its ice, and it’s within sight of Don’t Plan On Sailing Till Spring, but who cares? We have dragons, and it doesn’t get any better than that.

To the rest of the world, though, Berk is a myth. Seriously, we’re so far out that even Leif Erikson forgot we were here. To us, the Archipelago is practically our whole world.

This is the story of how all of that changed.

“Trader Johann is here!” the voices called, and the townsfolk rushed down to the docks. Sure, we have dragons to get us around now, but they’re not great for cargo, and as isolated as Berk is, it was always exciting to see the wares Johann picked up on his journeys—well except the time he sold Mildew a basket of blue oleander that nearly killed all the dragons on the island—or the time he sold Gobber a nest of Smothering Smokebreaths that stole all our weapons right before a Berserker attack…come to think of it, Johann could be more trouble than he was worth half the time.

Toothless and I flew down to the docks to meet him. As Chief, it was my duty to greet visitors and to inspect cargo for anything that shouldn’t be there, and I took that job seriously after his prior shenanigans. We landed just outside the docks because of the crowd, and I nudged my way through to the front.

“Ah, Berk, my favorite of all the islands I visit,” Johann said unconvincingly as he hopped off his boat. “Good morning, Chief Hiccup.”

“Good morning, Johann,” I said. “Smooth seas this month?”

“Excellent weather, Chief. Fine sailing from here all the way to the end of the Archipelago. Now, if I could have just a bit of help unloading some luggage…?”

I motioned to Gobber and Spitelout to give me a hand unloading the boxes from the ship. “Unloading cargo already?” I asked. “What’s the occasion?”

“This is a very special voyage,” Johann said. “I’ve found something even rarer than gold or squid ink: paying passengers! It’s been years since I’ve had any of them. Why, I remember—”

“Passengers?” I interrupted before he could launch into one of his stories. “Who would be paying for passage in the Archipelago? Everyone has their own boats.”

“Why, a pair of Christian missionaries from Norway, Chief Hiccup. Come on out, you two. This is Brother Harold and Brother Olaf.”

Two men slowly climbed out of the hold and stepped off the boat. You could tell they were religious devotees of some kind by their dress. They wore plain brown robes with hoods and had the tops of their heads shaved, leaving a ring of black hair on each of them. They also shaved their beards, which was rare in the Archipelago.

“Hail, Chief Hiccup Haddock,” the first man said, and they both bowed to me. “God be with you and your tribe.”

“Um, thanks. Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Welcome to Berk.” Toothless sniffed at the two men curiously, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with them, which was a good sign. They flinched a little upon seeing a dragon up close, but they stood their ground.

“Thank you, Chief Hiccup. Brother Harold and I had heard the tales of the great Dragon Tamers of Berk,” said the second man—Brother Olaf, apparently. He gazed around the village’s skyline and spotted a few dragons on the rooftops and flying through the air. “We weren’t sure whether to believe them, but it seems the stories were not exaggerated at all.”

“Yeah, that’s us: the dragon riders. So, Christians, huh?” I said, rubbing my chin. “You know, I’ve heard of you guys, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met any of you before.”

“That is why we are here, Chief,” Brother Olaf said. “Until recently, many of us in Norway weren’t even sure that Berk existed, but when we learned that there was an unchurched people on these isles, we mounted a mission.”

I heard some angry murmurs from the crowd and a few oaths to Thor and Odin, and Mom spoke up and said, “So these two want to teach us to follow their gods?”

“The One God, my Lady,” Brother Harold said.

“Do you think we should let these unbelievers into the village, Chief?” Spitelout said.

“Yeah, you _know_ what happened last time we angered Thor,” Gustav piped up.

“Guys, we’ve been over this,” I said. “I really don’t think that was Thor. I think it was just something weird that happens with lightning and metal. Now, let’s just take it easy. This isn’t the first time we’ve had followers of other gods here. Remember those Baltic pagans who came through a while back?” Honestly, I didn’t remember it very well myself. I was only six. “We gave them our hospitality then, and we can hear these Christians out now. I turned back to the two…monks? Was that what they were called? “Sorry about them,” I said. “We don’t get many outsiders here. I don’t think you’ll win many converts on Berk, but we _do_ try to keep an open mind.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, Chief Hiccup,” Brother Olaf said.

“Well, such as it is,” I said. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of arrangements for visitors, but I’m sure we can find a place to put you up and give you what provisions you need.”

“We do not wish to be a burden on any man,” said Brother Harold. “We will work for our keep, just as Saint Paul did.”

I didn’t know who Saint Paul was, but that sounded like a pretty good deal to me. Most of their luggage was unloaded by now, but the last trunk Gobber hauled up was unusually heavy, and it hit the dock with an ominous _THUD!_

“Oi, what you got in this one? A pile of rocks?” Gobber said.

“No, good sir,” Brother Olaf shook his head. He got out a key and opened the trunk, revealing one of the largest collections of books I’d ever seen in one place.

“Wow, what are these?” I said.

“Bibles—our holy scriptures,” he replied. “We had heard that Berk was a particularly literate island, so we commissioned the Order of Saint Benedict to make extra copies for your tribe.”

I picked up one of the books respectfully and opened it to find letters most unlike the Norse runes we used on Berk. I sounded out the words, and it was immediately clear that it wasn’t German either, the only other language we commonly saw in trade. “That’s very…nice of you,” I said, “but you won’t find many people here who can read _this_. I’ve only seen a few documents like this myself. It’s…is this Latin?”

“Yes, Chief Hiccup. You see, His Holiness the Pope has decreed that the Latin Bible ought to be maintained in formal use in order to preserve the accuracy of the text.”

“I guess that sort of makes sense, but what good does that do you Christians if no one can read it?”

“We believe it is the duty of the learned to translate and interpret the Bible for the edification of the people,” Brother Harold said. “The Church does not forbid translation for the sake of teaching, of course, only that it be done within the teachings and oversight of the Church. We did bring a Norse translation for you with us.”

“That’s convenient,” I said. I flipped to the beginning of the book in my hands to see if I could follow what it said. I tried to remember what little Latin I knew and read the first line: _“In principio creavit Deus cælum et terram._ Huh… _Deus_ —only one god,” I said. “That’s a different perspective…But I thought Christians worshiped someone called Christ.”

“We certainly do, Chief Hiccup,” Brother Harold said, “only is a little more complicated than that. Perhaps tonight we can explain to you the Mystery of the Trinity.”

 _Trinitas_ —that was the Latin word he used. I was pretty sure it meant three of something, which…made no sense at all in that context, but Harold seemed to have an explanation ready. I was sure then that our new contact with the outside world was going to be…interesting.

* * *

_Domrémy, Bar, Eastern France_

_1425_

This is Domrémy, in the Duchy of Bar. It’s a little pocket of French loyalty surrounded by brutal Viking occupiers. Raids are as frequent as they are violent, but we have nowhere else to go. Help and escape alike are hard to find around here without safe roads in and out. It’s overtaxed, under-served, and about a hundred miles from friendly territory. It’s not much, but it’s home.

My name’s Jehanne. I’ve lived in Domrémy my whole life. It’s a simple life: milk the cows, herd the sheep, spin the wool, sew the cloth…and pray that the Vikings raider don’t steal your livestock.

The Vikings aren’t anything new around here. Everyone knows the stories: Chief Hiccup Nightwing and Toothless the Night Fury, the Conquest of King Stoick II, Emperor Hiccup the Great and his Snow Furies. Basically, the Vikings spent their first three hundred years up on their frozen islands killing dragons and their next three hundred years riding them into battle. Today, they rule half of Europe, and the stories claim they have colonies all the way on the other side of the ocean. We’ve been lucky in France. The Dutch, Flemish, and Germans to the east of have been ruled by Vikings for generations. We’re the strongest holdout in Europe still standing against them.

France would have been conquered by the Viking Empire ages ago if it weren’t for a miraculous stroke of luck. A century or so back, the Mongols showed up, and they gave the Vikings their first defeat in over a hundred years. Everyone wanted to know the Great Khan’s secret, and Saint Louis IX found it out: the Mongols had _gunpowder_. Just like that, we could fight fire with fire, and suddenly, the Vikings weren’t so unstoppable anymore.

Just very, very difficult to stop.

I was three when the Vikings invaded France for the third time, and this time, they pulled out all the stops. We barely beat them back the first two times, and they don’t like losing.

They’re Vikings. They have stubbornness issues.

Even with our gunpowder and cannons, we couldn’t stop them this time. The raiders ran roughshod over half the country. By the time I was eight, they’d pushed as far south as Orléans, and King Charles the Mad surrendered to them. Guided by his traitorous nephew, the Duke of Burgundy, and a Viking vassal, he married his daughter off to the Viking Emperor Hamish V, slanderously named his own son a bastard, and worst of all, he signed away the throne to Hamish’s issue.

That was totally illegal, by the way. The King of France is required by the law to be a Frenchman. I checked.

Fortunately, _Le Dauphin_ understood that too, and he declared himself Regent and took up the cause. Today, the loyal French hail him as King Charles VII, even though he can’t be properly coronated until the Vikings are driven back from Reims.

None of that really affects us personally in Domrémy, though. Our concerns are usually more provincial. My father is the _doyen_ of the village. That’s French for “he’s in charge of fighting off the raiders.” It would be nice if he got paid better for it, but there’s not much money to go around here. We have to work our forty acres just like everyone else. It’s dangerous work, too. I think I mentioned that Vikings ride _dragons_ into battle.

“ _Dragons!_ ” Father shouted as he rang the alarm bell above our house. “Man the mortars! Archers, to arms! Fire brigade at the ready!”

The shouts of scrambling peasants filled the air as men rushed to their crossbows, javelins, and mortar teams. It was nearly midday when the raid happened—a surprise raid, not at night when they usually came. The mortars were the strongest defense against dragons. We didn’t have many, but the aerial bombs they fired were the only ones that could reliably get through Viking armor. We’d heard rumors that in Orléans they had hand cannons that were more versatile than crossbows, but no one in Domrémy had ever seen one.

“Pierre, Jean, help guard the granary,” Father shouted. “We can’t afford to lose it this time of year. Isabelle, get Jehanne and Catherine to the cellar.”

“I want to help!” I cried.

“Jehanne, get in the cellar with your mother,” he ordered. “You can help tend the wounded when we’re not under fire.”

Pierre and Jean, my brothers. They were both called to help defend the village now that Pierre was seventeen and Jean was sixteen. My eldest brother, Jacquemin, was already married with his first child on the way, so he had to defend his own home. But there wasn’t much a thirteen-year-old girl could do at times like these, and there was my sister, Catherine, to think of as well. She’s a year younger than I am, and we always found ourselves together in the cellar with Mother when the raids happened.

Mother rushed us into the house, but not before I got a good look at the enemy. There were about a dozen of them. Deadly Nadders: fast and agile, able to shoot deadly spines and breathe some of the hottest fire of any dragon. They were trying to pick off the defenders. Gronkles: tough, able to hover, and built for heavy lifting. They were trying to steal our grain, our livestock, and anything else they wanted. And the lead Viking rode a Monstrous Nightmare: big and mean with a nasty habit of lighting everything in its path on fire whether it was an enemy or not.

“Jehanne, get inside!” Mother cried. She pulled Catherine and me down to the cellar with her, and we braced ourselves for the attack. We knew at once that this wasn’t an ordinary attack. The explosions were louder, closer. We could feel the heat of the flames through the cracks in the cellar door. There was no way for us to know if Father, Pierre, or Jean had survived the first few minutes. There was nothing we could do but wait and pray.

“ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum,_ _”_ I prayed _._ _“Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._

“ _Ave Maria—_ ” _BOOM!_ “—AH! _Gratia plena—_ ” _CRASH!_ “— _Dominus tecum—_ ” I pleaded. The house shook to its foundations from some unknown attack. “ _B-b-benedicta_ _…_ ”

_CLANNNGGG!_

I screamed. That sound could only be one thing: the bell tower collapsing and the great alarm bell crashing to the earth, and with it, with a rumble and a crash, the whole house fell down around us.

“Please, God help us!”

I think I must have passed out, but it can’t have been for long since the din of battle still sounded outside when I came to. We were very lucky. The cellar had only partially caved in along with the rest of the house. Mother, Catherine and I could still move, and we could see the light coming from the stairs. We couldn’t stay put, though. The rest of the ceiling could cave in at any moment, and the cellar was rapidly filling with smoke. We had to crawl out through the smoke and rubble. Our house was in ruins. I couldn’t see Father at all, and we could tell Mother was injured.

We made it to the garden, and I finally saw Father. I thanked God to see he was still alive, but he was flat on his back and groaning in pain. He was burned, and he had a Nadder spine driven through his leg. He was lying out in the open: easy pickings for another dragon.

“Catherine, stay with Mother. I’ll go help him,” I ordered. I hurried to reach him and quickly checked him for head injuries and broken bones.

“Jehanne,” he groaned, “you need to get to safety.”

“So do you, Father,” I said as tears welled in my eyes. When I satisfied myself that his head wasn’t hurt too badly, and he perhaps had only a couple broken ribs, I began to drag him back to the shadow of what was left of the wall of the house. It was hard, but as I got closer, Catherine rushed out and helped me. When we were as safe as we could be under the circumstances, we tore off strips of his shirt to bind the wound on his leg where the Nadder spine had pierced it.

Even if they were girls or were too young to fight, every child in France—certainly every child in Bar—knew how to treat burns and bind wounds.

Unfortunately, the raid wasn’t over. Fire and bombs continued to burst around us. Even as we tried to help Mother and Father, another explosion rocked the house, collapsing what remained and throwing us to the ground, covering us in dust. I knelt in the garden, my ears ringing, trying to get my bearings, and all I could do was cry out, “Please, God, save us from these raiders!” And then, I heard it.

_“Jehanne. Jehanne. Jehanne.”_

The voice sounded like thunder, or the roar of a dragon, or the shout of a multitude, and I cringed in fear of it. But it spoke again, and this time a light came with it, seemingly from just out of my view, in the direction of the church.

_“Do not be afraid, Jehanne.”_

I turned and saw a great light—not angry red like dragon fire, but pure and white, so bright that I had to shield my eyes.

_“Fear not, daughter of God, for He is with you always and will keep you safe.”_

When voice spoke the third time, I knew it was the voice of an angel, and indeed. When I peered up, I could see the shape of a man, shining white, with two other figures on his right and left, and behind them were a multitude of angels. Suddenly, I felt a comfort like I had never before known, and the danger of the raiders seeming to vanish around me.

“Who are you?” I asked.

 _“I am Saint Michael, the protector of France,”_ the angel said, _“and Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret are with me. God has heard your prayers, Jehanne and has sent us to your aid. Know that He will keep you and your family safe this day.”_

“God be praised,” I said. I never imagined I’d see and hear the answer to my prayers with my own eyes and ears. I didn’t know how to answer that. What do you say to an archangel who suddenly appears before you? “Please, I ask you…um…What instruction do you have for the salvation of my soul?”

A different voice spoke, which didn’t sound like a multitude, but like a kind woman, and I knew in my heart it was Saint Catherine: _“You have found favor, daughter of God. Do not fear. Only be a good girl, and go to church often.”_

“I have done these things since I was very young,” I answered, “and I have fasted and prayed for the salvation of my people. But I wish I could do more.”

A third voice spoke, that of Saint Margaret: _“One thing you lack. You must go to France.”_

I thought I had misheard for a moment. “To France?” I asked.

 _“God has indeed heard your prayers for your people, Jehanne,”_ she said. _“He has commanded you to go to France, to save them from the Vikings and to restore the King to his rightful throne.”_

“Me? But…how can I do these things? I’m only a young girl.”

_“God’s arm will be with you. With Him, you cannot fail. And we will also be with you each day to guide you.”_

I could hardly believe it. God had chosen me for this? The thought was comforting, confusing, and terrifying all at the same time. “How…? How can I fight for France, St. Margaret?” I asked. “I’m not a warrior, and I certainly don’t have the strength to fight dragons.”

_“We will guide you, and you will learn. You cannot win by fighting dragons. To save France, you must learn what the Vikings learned and fight as the Vikings fight—but not with their cruelty and destruction. You must fight instead with their weapons. You must ride dragons.”_

All at once, the vision vanished. The light went out, and the angels disappeared. I looked around and saw myself kneeling in the garden where I had been before. The battle had quieted, and the fires around me were dying, and I cried at the loss of something so beautiful.

I could barely think about the weight of what God had commanded me to do. No one but a Viking has ever ridden a dragon. To each other, they claim it was no different than training dogs for hunting—or so the stories go—but a dog isn’t big enough to eat you for breakfast, and it can’t breath fire to roast you first. No one else has ever done it, and they guard their secrets jealously. And even then, I knew it couldn’t be that easy if it took them three hundred years to figure it out for themselves. How was I, thirteen-year-old Jehanne Romée, to succeed where so many others failed.

 _Do not fear. We will guide you,_ the Saints’ words echoed in my mind. They were right, of course. I had to have faith, no matter how hard the task. God had ordered it and sent me three angels to help me: Saint Michael the Archangel, the vanquisher of Satan and protector of France; Saint Catherine, the patron of maidens; and Saint Margaret, who had once escaped from the very belly of a dragon by tearing at its innards with her crucifix. With them and God himself on my side, whom then would I fear?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The dragons belong to DreamWorks. Jehanne belongs to history.

_Domrémy, France_

_1427_

Father survived, just as the saints had promised, although his leg never fully recovered, and he walked with a cane from then on. Pierre and Jean had also escaped the attack on the granary, and Jacquemin’s family was safe as well. With our house destroyed, the whole family bedded with them for a while until we could build a new one. Our new house was smaller than the old one and not as well-built, but our farm was safe, and we still got by.

St. Michael didn’t often appear to me, but St. Catherine and St. Margaret spoke to me daily, bidding me to go to church, say my prayers, and help my family in any way I could. They saved my life twice in the following year. Once, they warned me that a raid was coming and told me to carry a smoked eel with me all day. It was gross, but when the Vikings came, their dragons wouldn’t come near me. That put to rest any lingering doubt I might have had. I never would have thought of that on my own.

The second time, the saints didn’t warn me of the raid ahead of time. They said I needed to learn to face dragons up close, and I got closer than I ever dreamed that day. In that raid, a Deadly Nadder ran me over, leaving me lying on the ground under it. I was in the dragon’s blind spot, but not its rider’s. But St. Catherine told me to scratch under its chin. Suddenly, the Nadder turned docile and tipped over on its side, throwing its rider off, cursing in Norse. He got up and tried to kill me, but Jean and Pierre ran up and killed him first. Mother said it was a miracle I survived, and I didn’t correct her, since it was sort of true anyway.

I was in less danger after that, and I learned fast. For two years after I first saw the saints in the garden, I stayed at home and learned all they had to teach me. But it was only a matter of time before I was noticed. The week I left home started like any other—at least any other of that year. I got up early in the morning, and did my chores, but in the afternoon, I was free to wander off on my own. I ran out to the forest beyond our farm, quickly walking the path I had taken many times. It wasn’t the easiest path; I had to cross a stream on a fallen tree and scramble over an outcropping of rocks; and the villagers would probably have been surprised to see a young girl take it so fast--at least one wearing a dress. Finally, I reached the hidden clearing where the saints had led me much earlier: a quiet glade with a pool of water to one side. There was no sign of movement when I arrived, but I knew my friend wouldn’t be far.

“ _Briquet,_ ” I called. “ _Briquet, come here_.”

A little, green Terrible Terror came frolicking out of the bushes. He jumped and flew up to land on my arm, and I giggled as he crawled up my arm and across my shoulders. “It’s good to see you too, Briquet,” I told him. As he kept crawling all over me, I laughed again and pulled out the fish I’d brought him. “Alright, alright,” I said, “yes, I brought a treat for you.”

He tried to snap at it, but I pulled it back. “Not yet, Briquet. Sit.” I pointed to the ground, and he scampered down my other arm and sat in front of me, looking up at me expectantly.

“Lie down.”

He lay down.

“Roll over.”

He did.

“Circle.”

I drew a circle in the air with my finger and held my arm up. Briquet leapt up and flew a wide circle around me and landed on my arm again. “Good boy,” I said. I fed him the fish and stroked his back while he nuzzled my cheek.

Briquet had been my friend for a year now—probably the best friend a non-Viking had ever made of a dragon, even a little one. When I first found him, he was sick with eel pox—delirious and coughing up little fireballs everywhere. Dragons get eel pox by eating uncooked eels, the same as people; normally, they avoid them like the plague, though. I didn’t know how he caught it, but I did know the cure for eel pox. I whipped up a dose for him, just leaving out the eel. It was hard to get close to him. Even a Terrible Terror is dangerous and aggressive in the wild, and the constant fireballs made him even worse. I used a heavy roll of leather as a shield so I could get close enough to feed it to him. He ate it and perked right up. I was amazed how easy it was to befriend him after that. Now, he was as friendly as a cat.

With the saints’ guidance, I trained Briquet and taught him to do tricks—some like a dog and some like a falcon. I learned as much as I could about him. Not all dragons are alike, but most of them are similar enough. I learned what kinds of fish he liked to eat, how to distract him with sunlight reflected off my knife, how to pacify him with Dragon Nip, where he liked to be scratched, and how to make him more comfortable when he slept.

I figured out that last part when he curled up in my lap for a nap, and after I saw a Hobblegrunt land in the clearing and make a bed for itself by burning the grass and lying on it. Larger dragons landed in the clearing from time to time, but I never got close enough to touch one. I realized Briquet being alone could be a problem because he might get cold at night. Terrors fly in flocks, and I could guess they bed down together for warmth, but Briquet had lost his. So I taught him to make a warm bed of burnt grass for himself like the Hobblegrunt. That was one of the hardest things I had to teach him because it’s not normal Terror behavior, but he seemed a lot livelier after that, although I was happy to see that he still enjoyed curling up in my lap, too.

I had been playing with Briquet for a little while when I heard a sound overhead like the squawking of an enormous bird. I knew most of the common species by their calls, so I knew it was a Deadly Nadder. I picked up Briquet and ducked back into the trees. As I’d suspected, the dragon was alone, and it was a wild one. It circled the clearing once and fluttered down for a feather-light landing, stalking over to the pool to drink. When this happened before, I had always stayed back and watched from the trees, but this time, I heard the voices of the saints speaking to me.

_Jehanne, go to him._

I stood up straighter. I had never come close to a dragon that size except once during that raid, but the saints said I was ready. I stepped into the clearing slowly. The Nadder didn’t notice at first. I had time to collect my roll of leather, carefully wrapped up to keep it dry, to use as a shield. A Terrible Terror was dangerous, but alone, it was little threat, even to a young girl. But a Deadly Nadder could shoot razor-sharp spines from its tail with the accuracy of a master archer, and its flame could turn a man to ash where he stood. This was a far different creature.

The dragon noticed me. Lightning-fast, it spun around, flaring its tail spines. It took two great leaps forward and shrieked at me like a monstrous eagle, but I stood perfectly still and held my ground. When I didn’t attack it, the Nadder calmed and lowered its tail spines, though it still eyed me warily.

I extended my empty hand and crept forward. The dragon twitched, standing in place and watching for any sudden moves. Briquet and the other Terrors that landed in the clearing always grew calm and docile with me if I approached them slowly and stroked their heads, but the Nadder was more cautious. As I drew closer, it hissed and stepped back, raising its tail again. I stopped and lowered my hand until it calmed, and I tried again, but it happened twice more. He just wouldn’t let me get close enough. On the third try, I thought he was about to shoot his spines at me, so I quickly raised the roll of leather to cover my face.

And then, I heard St. Catherine speaking to me: _Put it down, Jehanne. Have faith._

Trembling, I looked up. The Nadder was still standing there, watching me. I couldn’t protect myself without the shield. He was faster than I was. But I couldn’t disobey. I cast the leather to the side. The dragon jerked back as if surprised, then took a cautious step forward. Slowly, I reached out to him again, but he still held back and wouldn’t let me touch. _Eye contact_ , I realized. They responded to eye contact as a challenge like dogs. He still saw me as a possible threat.

I put all my faith in God’s protection as I lowered my head submissively. I would _need_ God’s protection if he decided to try to bite it off. But he didn’t. Instead, I felt hot breath on my hand, and smooth scales brushed against it. I looked up. The Nadder nuzzled my hand just like the little Terrors did.

Then he noticed me looking and jumped away, but the ice was broken.

He got used to me quickly—not all at once, but he didn’t flinch from letting me close enough to touch him after that. I was worried he wouldn’t come back the next day, but he did, and he was still friendly enough to let me near. He ate the fish I brought him, let me scratch him under his chin, and chased a mote of reflected sunlight with Briquet. I was happy just to see the two dragons getting along.

By the third day, he was comfortable enough to let me embrace him around the neck, and since it was clear he was staying for a while, I decided it was time to name him. A Sharp Class dragon like him deserved an appropriate name, but in French, it seemed like most of the names of weapons were feminine—sword, arrow, spear, lance, mace, crossbow, halberd, axe—all feminine. I felt like that said more about men than the weapons themselves. But there were a few alternatives. I tried a few on my tongue.

“Sabre,” I decided. “That’s your name. Sabre.”

He seemed to like it.

I came back to the farm with a smile on my face, but my mother’s exasperated look made it fade.

“Jehanne, _there_ you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, mother. I didn’t know I was needed,” I told her.

She sighed quietly. “Come with me, Jehanne, I need to talk to you.” I followed her around to the barn. Had I forgotten to milk the cows that morning? I didn’t think so. “Where do you go in the afternoons?” she asked. “I never see you until supper anymore, except on Sundays.”

“I like to walk in the woods,” I said, which was true.

“I know there’s more to it than that, Jehanne,” Mother said. “You’ve been…strange these past two years. This wandering of yours—it’s dangerous. And not proper for a young lady.”

“I _have_ done my duties as a young lady, Mother.”

“You have, but that’s not all you’re up to; I know it. You’ve told us about your visions. Divine they may be, but they worry us—me, your father, your brothers. Catherine has heard you talking to yourself—about _dragons_. About the _prophecy_. We don’t like what we’re hearing—your father especially.”

There’s one other thing I haven’t mentioned yet. You see, for a few years before this, there had been rumors of a prophecy that a young maiden with great skill and wisdom would appear riding a dragon and save France from the Vikings. Some said the prophecy had been spoken by the Vikings’ own soothsayers. Other said it was spoken by Merlin and was older that the Viking Empire itself. When they mentioned a place, they always said the maiden would come from “the borders of Lorraine”—a Viking-controlled duchy next to Bar. Domrémy wasn’t in Lorraine, but it was perhaps close enough to count, so when the saints told me _I_ was the prophesied maiden and showed me that I could actually tame dragons, I had a good reason to believe them.

“I’m only going where God guides me, Mother,” I said.

“You say that,” she said. “You may even believe it, but you don’t know the trouble you’re causing.” She turned away silently, as if she were thinking something over. “I didn’t want to have to worry you about this, but your father has been having dreams himself.”

My eyes widened. “Dreams?” I asked.

“Yes. Dreams of you leaving home, going to France. Dreams of you running off to try to fulfill this prophecy that might not even be real.”

“I told you, the saints have called me—”

“We’re not in Lorraine, Jehanne!”

“We’re near enough to its borders, Mother. And borders change, though I pray they stay where they are.”

“It doesn’t matter where they are,” Mother said. “Your father thinks his dreams are true, and I fear what he will do to stop them. He’s protective—but not just of you, and not always for the best, I’m sorry to say. He fears what will happen if you leave—to you, to the family, to the family’s honor, to your sister. You’re risking his ire by wandering off like you do every day. He…he fears his dream will come true soon.”

I stared at her in horror. I couldn’t stop now. I’d just befriended Sabre. I was on the verge of making real progress, maybe even learning to ride. “Mother…what are you saying?” I asked.

She choked back tears as she answered: “He told me he would drown you before he let you go on your fool’s errand.”

My heart clenched in my chest. My own father? He would stop me, _kill_ me before I could do my duty? What was I going to do? “I can’t just—” I started.

“You’ll do what I tell you to, Jehanne,” she cut me off. “For your own sake. You’re not to go wandering off in the woods anymore.”

And that was that. I cried myself to sleep that night. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to disobey my parents, but I _couldn_ _’t_ disobey God’s will. Yet I didn’t know how I could so much as get back out to the forest again without being caught.

It wasn’t until the next day after a restless night that I received an answer from the saints. I knew it was a special day because St. Michael came to me himself.

 _Jehanne, daughter of God_ , he said to me.

I looked up and saw the archangel shining like the sun. “Here I am,” I called.

_Do not be afraid to leave your father_ _’s home. He does not yet understand, but he will in time._

“But he said he would drown me,” I said. “He’s watching me all the time now. I can’t even get to the clearing without him finding out. How can I leave home now?”

_Fear not. God has prepared a path for you, and His angels will go ahead of you. But you have only a little time. You must prepare all you need and go quickly._

Through several other visions that day, I understood. I begged Catherine to do my chores the next morning and extracted a solemn promise from her not to tell anyone what was happening until I was gone. That night, I packed everything I thought I would need in a sack, and I left at first light the next morning, not waiting for the afternoon.

I hurried to the clearing, slipping past my family’s watchful eyes and rushing through the woods, fearful of being found before I could get away. I was nearly there, and I thought I had made it when I heard someone call my name from behind me.

“Jehanne!”

“No,” I whispered. I turned around. It was my brother, Jean, running to catch up with me.

“Jehanne, what are you doing?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Jean, I have to go.”

“Wait! Tell me what’s happening. Father’s been half-mad all week over you, and now you’re running off into the woods after Mother ordered you not to? What have you been doing out here?”

“Jean, please just let me go. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Is this about your visions again?”

“ _Yes!_ Jean, I have to go. God has called me to save France. Maybe I sound mad, but I know I can do it. You don’t know what I’ve been doing.”

“Then help me understand. Please.”

I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the clearing and then back at Jean. There was no way I could outrun him if he meant to drag me back, even if I weren’t carrying that weight. “Alright,” I said. “Follow me, but please, don’t be afraid, and don’t do anything rash.” I took off at a run, and he followed me as fast as he could.

“Good gracious, how did you get this _fast?_ ” he panted behind me. I’d forgotten he wasn’t used to the rough terrain. I made it all the way in sight of the clearing before he caught up and said, “Will you slow down for a minute? And what do you mean, don’t do anything rash—?” He stopped, looking past me in horror. “Jehanne, get behind me,” he hissed and pushed me behind him for good measure.

He’d seen Sabre.

“ _No!_ ” I shouted. “This is what I was talking about.”

“That’s a wild dragon!”

“Not anymore. I’ve been taming him.”

_“Him?!”_

“And he’s not the first. Look. _Briquet! Briquet, come!_ ”

Sabre looked our way, and Briquet popped up into view and flew straight at me. I raised my arm, but Jean shoved me out of the way and pulled out a long knife. “Watch out!” he said.

“No! Don’t hurt him!” I pushed him back and caught Briquet before Jean could take a swing at him. Unfortunately, Sabre noticed the fight and charged in in my defense. Jean screamed and prepared to charge him back with his knife, as mad as that was. “STOP! Sabre, down!” I yelled.

Sabre stopped and crouched to the ground, looking up at Jean warily. Jean slowed by kept advancing, raising his knife above his head, but I ran up to him and pulled him over backwards.

“Jehanne, have you gone mad?” he yelled.

“It’s okay,” I pleaded. “I told you, he’s friendly. Look.” I turned back to the Nadder. “It’s okay, Sabre,” I said soothingly. “He’s my brother—he’s a friend. He just doesn’t understand. Come here.” Sabre cautiously stood up and approached, and Jean watched in amazement as I pet his snout. “There, you see?” I said.

“That’s…that’s impossible,” he whispered.

“It’s not, Jean. It’s not even hard. The Vikings have been doing it for three hundred years.”

“But we’re not Vikings.”

“The saints showed me how. You see how they’ve been helping me now? They led me to Briquet, and I learned from him, and then they led Sabre to me. Dragons aren’t untamable. We just never understood before. Come here and see.” I took his hand and pulled him closer, but Sabre squawked and jerked back. “Jean,” I whispered, “put the knife down. He’s afraid of it.”

Jean looked like he was about to argue, but with his little sister already petting a man-eating dragon like an overgrown chicken, he must have decided it wasn’t the time. He dropped his knife and let me pull him closer, placing his hand on Sabre’s snout. “There, you see? He’s a friend,” I said to both of them.

“So…this is what you’ve been doing all those times you wandered off,” he said.

“Yes, Jean…But now that Father means to stop me, I have to go. St. Michael himself told me it was time. I have to leave so I can keep working. I have to save France as God commanded.”

It finally clicked for Jean. “You can ride?” he said in awe.

“I’m learning,” I admitted.

“But…you’re going to teach our people to ride dragons?”

“Yes.”

That was all it took to convince him. He even followed me into the clearing and helped me get ready to go. I already had an idea to turn my roll of leather into a makeshift saddle, but he was able to do it much better than I could. I thanked God that Sabre was so calm to let me bridle him so soon. Once everything was secure, Jean saw me off and told me not to worry about him; he could handle any thrashing Father gave him for it. I made sure Briquet was ready to go with me, said goodbye to my brother, and Sabre spread his wings and took to the sky.

And that was the most wonderful moment of my life.

It was also the most terrifying.

Words can’t begin to describe the feeling of flying. People have dreamed of it since long before Vikings first rode dragons, and ever since, they have been envied not just for their strength in conquest, but also because they had access to an experience none of us ground-dwellers could ever have. Soaring through the air, feeling the wind on your face, and seeing the terrain flash by at impossible speeds, so high you feel like you can see the whole world—it was so beautiful I couldn’t speak. It must be a glimpse of what the angels see, I thought. When Sabre flew me up into the clouds, I never wanted to come down, even though I was scared out of my wits at the same time.

Dragons fly far faster than a horse can run, and Nadders were the fastest dragons around. There’s no other way for a human being to go anywhere near that high and that fast, so there was absolutely no way I could have prepared for it. The smallest mistake can be fatal in flight, and I didn’t have anything like a proper saddle for Sabre when I left. I clung to his spines for dear life the whole time we were in the air.

It took some time, but I eventually figured out how to steer. I didn’t know where I was to go, but I knew I would find no friendly territory near Bar, as the Vikings had us surrounded.

I turned us to the south.

* * *

_Isle of Berk_

_1105_

The Berk Council: what happens when you put a bunch of Viking family heads in a room and tell them to play nice. They’re a squabbling mess on the best of days, and this _wasn_ _’t_ the best of days. Technically, they were only advisers to the Chief, but I couldn’t afford to ignore them too often. Vikings tended to get annoyed by things like that, and annoyed Vikings are not something you want to deal with. And that goes double when Spitelout is involved. Today’s topic of discussion, as usual, was the missionaries.

“Look, I’m not saying Harold and Olaf aren’t nice men,” Spitelout said. “I’m just saying, have a look at the influence they’re having on the village. I’ve seen them talking to the kids around town. They eat up those stories of theirs.”

“Aye, and so does Fishlegs,” Gobber pointed out.

“Well, that’s just Fishlegs,” I said. “He likes stories more than most of the kids.

“Spitelout is right, Hiccup,” Mom cut in. “You _know_ they are trying to lead the children away from _Forn Sidhr_. They’ve said that’s why they’re here from the beginning.”

“And you and Gothi have done a good job of upholding the Old Custom, Mother,” I told her. “That doesn’t mean we have to kick Harold and Olaf out. I’m not planning on giving up Odin or Thor anytime soon, and I’m not worried for the practice in the village, either. What good is our faith if it can’t hold up to someone with a different point of view?”

“But if their faith is spreading?” Sven piped up. “I heard a rumor that Mulch and Bucket did some Christian ritual where they got dunked in the river.”

There were loud murmurs around the Council table. That was news to most of them, and worrying news at that. “Baptism,” I said. “It’s called baptism. It’s something new converts do to demonstrate they faith.”

There were even louder murmurs then. “So it’s true, then?” said Spitelout. “They converted? Left the Old Custom behind?”

I sighed and raised a hand, silencing the council. “Yes, it’s true,” I said. “Apparently, Bucket and Mulch are Christians, now.”

“Outrageous!”

“Traitors!”

“We should throw them _all_ out of the village!”

“Guys! _Guys!_ ” I yelled. I banged the hilt of my sword on the table for order. “I really think you’re overreacting.”

“Yeah, we _are_ talking about Bucket here,” said Gobber.

“True, it’s not like _he_ _’s_ the smartest guy around,” Gustav agreed. That was an understatement. Bucket couldn’t remember the start of a conversation from its end half the time. We were lucky we managed to get the pair of them off the Council themselves.

“But Mulch isn’t stupid, either,” Sven insisted. “People are following them. They’ll bring the wrath of the gods on us if they keep this up.”

“Thor will smite us!”

I groaned. People said that every lightning storm since long before the missionaries came here. “I don’t think Thor is going to smite us over Mulch and Bucket,” I said. “Think about it. The whole point of letting Harold and Olaf stay in Berk was to hear them out and let them teach their faith to anyone who wanted to hear it. I said that at the start. I’m not surprised they won a few converts, but I also know I’m not going to stop worshiping Odin, and the fact that we’re even having this discussion means most of you aren’t going to either. Besides, Norway is a Viking kingdom, and they say plenty of Norwegians have been Christians for over a hundred years, including the _king_ , and Thor hasn’t smote them.”

“But we only have their word on that,” said Spitelout.

“So we’ll send an expedition to investigate for ourselves. I’ve matched my map to theirs. Norway isn’t far past where Eret’s old Trapper fort was. A team of dragons could get there in a few days.”

My proposal was met with silence. No one had been expecting that. I wasn’t sure if they were more surprised about the news about Norway or that I actually suggested an expedition to the mainland. Even Norway was so far out from Berk that we rarely thought about it. Dragon-fighting had made us insular—not like our cousins who sailed all the way across to Vinland and back. Or maybe they were surprised that no one else had thought of such a simple answer.

“Hiccup’s right. We can afford to keep them at least that long,” Astrid spoke up for the first time. She was on the Council because of her rank in the Riders, but as my fiancée, I would technically become her family head, so it was a little irregular. “And besides, haven’t they been doing good work here? They haven’t been a burden to us, and they haven’t even tried to pry too deep into dragon riding. I know many of you have appreciated their help. _All_ of us were happy to have the extra hands during harvest season, right?”

Most of the Council reluctantly agreed with her. The monks didn’t really work for a living back in Norway, but they did maintain their monasteries, so they were good for any odd jobs that needed done. They helped us with farming, building, repair work of all kinds, and sometimes cooking and cleaning. They asked about the dragons, and we let them help with little things, but they didn’t complain when we were cautious about revealing too much. Aside from the proselytizing, they were the perfect guests.

Naturally, they were eager to talk about their faith. While they lived and worked with the people of Berk, I started reading their Bible when I had the time—both in Norse and increasingly in Latin. For me, it was mostly a chance to learn the language, but it was an interesting book. Of course, the Monks knew it backwards and forwards despite its size and were quick to respond to any interest. I liked a lot of the stories myself, like the little boy who took down a giant by fighting smarter instead of harder, or the wise king who could rule justly in the most difficult of cases, or the queen who saved her people by political maneuvering. The Eddas had some of that, but not a lot, and it usually involved Loki’s tricks. Granted, parts of the book were bloody even by Viking standards, but their god, Jesus, definitely wasn’t—more of a Baldr than an Odin—in more ways than one, in fact.

Anyway, I called the vote, and the Council agreed to the expedition. That was good. I thought we could use more contact with the mainland anyway after what I’d seen. “Alright, then,” I said. “Gustav, as leader of the Auxiliary Riders, I want you to lead the expedition to Norway.” Gustav was a competent, more-or-less neutral person to take the lead on this. “Take Eret with you. He knows the way and has more dealings with them than any of us. And take Fishlegs, too. He’s the best at actually documenting things. Get ready, pack supplies, and fly as soon as you’re able, but don’t spread it around what you’re doing. If Harold and Olaf ask, just say we want to reconnect with our cousins on the mainland. That’s true enough.”

“Aye aye, Chief,” Gustav said.

“And remember, this _is_ our first major contact with the mainland since the great inter-tribal council that Drago destroyed years ago, and more importantly, it’s the first since we started riding dragons, so…actually, do you want to go, Mother? I’m sure Fishlegs can manage, but you’d make for a stronger diplomatic envoy.” That was a bit of a risk considering how much Mom disliked the missionaries, but she really was the best diplomat we could spare.

She considered a moment and said, “Yes, I would be happy to go, Hiccup. And I know those parts well, too, so I could be doubly useful.”

“Great. That’s settled, then,” I said. Before we closed, I considered bringing up the other piece of news I had: the monks had told me that now that they had converts in Berk, they were interested in building a chapel—something like an enclosed altar, I thought, smaller than their “churches” and “cathedrals”. I didn’t have any strong objections, but I decided to keep that bit to myself. No need to kick up that hornets’ nest until after the expedition got back. Hopefully, their report would let cooler heads prevail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Vinland is the Norse name for Newfoundland in Canada, which was briefly colonized by Vikings in the real world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Air raids with dragons? Cool, but sadly still not mine.

_Orléans, France_

_1429_

The city of Orléans stood under siege. It wasn’t a siege such as history described those of earlier centuries, or those in the South or the East, with long trenches of heavy siege-works dug in close around its walls. The Viking garrisons were stationed farther back, clustered around the main roads to stop supplies getting to the city, housed behind hastily-built stone walls that would resist cannon fire from the French. They didn’t need to be close because fast-flying dragons would intercept anyone who tried to break the blockade. And instead of siege-works, the area just outside the walls was a burnt and blackened wasteland covered with craters where precious little grew.

The city itself was mostly stone, bricks, and, where all else failed, tents and makeshift shelters. This was nothing new, although the trend had accelerated during the siege. Mostly, though, it was a result of a hundred years of facing an enemy that could rain fire down from the heavens.

While the city lay in a restless sleep, lookouts watched the sky with spyglasses, one of the technologies the French _did_ manage to copy from the Vikings, searching for the slightest hint of a silhouette of a wing or the glint of a spear. At unpredictable intervals, a lighthouse beam focused through an enormous lens like a reverse spyglass would sweep the horizon, hoping to catch incoming attackers by surprise. Of course, however stealthily the Vikings moved, the sound of flapping wings would be clear when they drew near enough, but they often drew quite close before they were noticed.

It was with one of these sweeps that the light illuminated a distant formation, approaching with the wind from the northwest. The lookouts spotted it at once and sounded the alarm.

_“AIR RAID!”_

A distinctive high, piercing sound broke across the city: a long wail that slowly rose and fell in pitch in a way that was unmistakable. It was a slide trumpet—an instrument otherwise used only in church services, and not in the same way. Other trumpeters repeated the sound when they heard it, rousing the whole city. Soldiers ran to their posts; gunners swung the cannons around to face the enemy; and arbalestiers took their positions with their crossbows. There were hand cannons and wheellock muskets, too, which had better range, but an arbalest was as fast and more reliable in all weather conditions. And there were also ballistae launching weighted nets and harpoons that gave yet another advantage against the flesh-and-blood fliers.

The besieged townsfolk rushed to underground shelters. These, too, were dug over many years, but many of them dug or expanded quite recently. They moved hurriedly, but not panicked. This was an all too regular occurrence for them. They were lucky this time. The raid was spotted far from the city.

The Vikings came in range of the cannons first. The gunners fired grapeshot and canisters of darts that could rip through dragons’ wings and tails at long distances. But the riders saw the muzzle flashes and climbed higher, dodging the worst of it. High enough, and the force of the cannon-fire would be reduced greatly, and what was more, the elite air raid squadrons armored their dragons with the scales of a Screaming Death—strong enough to deflect most of the French weapons and light enough to armor even the wings.

The Vikings climbed higher and higher on their dragons and then dove from directly above the city. It was the usual type of air raid. In front was a squadron of a dozen Deadly Nadders, the fastest dragons in the Vikings’ arsenal aside from the Royal Family’s Snow Furies. Lightly armored and highly maneuverable, they would dive in close in and around the defenders, destroying their weapons with their spine shots and white-hot magnesium flames. Behind them were the beasts responsible for the half-destroyed city and the scorched earth around it. Twelve massive Typhoomerangs descended through the clouds and unleashed hellfire on the city of Orléans, leaving their characteristic spiral scorch marks a dozen times over and burning everything in their path. Their riders fed them eels as snacks so that they could keep burning all night—the only dragons that could do so.

The French soldiers fled as their garrisons were destroyed. The tents and makeshift shelters burned like kindling. The stone and brick buildings stood firm, but they wouldn’t save the people inside from being cooked alive or suffocating on the spent air under a sustained assault. With constant booms and screams, the French fought back with cannon-fire and arrows, some tipped with Dragon Root tranquilizers, working to bring the dragons down, but the Vikings were too fast, and their fire burned too hot.

It soon became clear that this was going to be one of the bad nights as one ballista after another was burned, cannon crews were blasted off the wall, and arbalestiers and musketeers were impaled with spines. The city had been worn down for months and it seemed like tonight, everything that was left to stand against the Vikings would be burned to the ground.

The dragon-riders cheered their imminent victory with berserker war cries, and the garrisons on the roads answered back in the distance. But then, just when all hope seemed lost for the French, they heard a new sound coming from high above—a rising whistling sound that struck fear into the hearts of the strongest men who knew the old stories, despite not having been heard in over two hundred years.

Like a bolt from heaven, a blinding globe of violet light lanced down like struck one of the Typhoomerangs square in the back, exploding at the base of its neck. The great beast tumbled in the air and fell to the ground dead in an enormous fireball. The other dragons scattered in all directions as a living shadow pursued them, downing the Typhoomerangs one after the other without slowing and without mercy.

_“Night Fury!”_

The shadow moved like lightning, faster than any dragon ever seen—even faster than the Snow Furies. The Nadders were fast enough to flee when they split up, but the half the Typhoomerangs died before they reached the ring of garrisons. And the garrisons themselves were in chaos.

_“Night Fury! Get down!”_

_BOOM!_

A bolt of violet plasma exploded in the middle of the first garrison, and the shadow kept moving at top speed, hitting the next one and the next before they could react. The Night Fury was invisible against the moonless sky until it was too late, its distinctive whistling the only warning that death was coming from above. It swooped in at top speed, blasted the center of the camp, and raced past them before they could bring their weapons to bear. As it circled the city, the Viking fliers took off with their dragons, but they were unprepared for an enemy of this speed, power, and stealth. In fact, they were unprepared for an enemy that could fly at all. The Night Fury dodged them easily and just as easily sniped the Vikings out of the sky. By the time it finished its great circle, they were wholly routed, their strength broken and many of their dragons fleeing riderless in fear.

The Night Fury sped back towards Orléans. When the fighting on the Viking lines stopped, the French began swinging the lighthouse beam around. Even in the direct beam, though, the Night Fury was nearly invisible except for the reflection of its blue eyes and the glint of armor of its rider. The French braced themselves for its approach, but just as it reached the city, it turned and flew along the outer wall. When the light beam followed it, the rider unfurled a banner—a white banner with the fleur-de-lis painted in gold—the symbol of the king of France.

The city erupted in cheers.

* * *

We circled the city walls three times so that everyone could get a good look at us. The prophecy said the Maiden would ride to France’s aid on a dragon and put the Vikings to rout, which was exactly what we had done, so I wasn’t surprised that they “recognized” me, in a sense. Indeed, by the third circuit, I could hear shouts of triumph and thanks to God coming from the ramparts. The men called out to me, all of them wanting to meet their savior, even as some of them flinched when we drew close.

Once everyone had seen us, I came in for a landing. Orléans had six gates. I steered us to the only one that was on the River Loire, where the drawbridge was. It was more proper to ask for permission to enter the city, even though they would probably let us land on the castle keep.

“Alright, Iradei,” I said, patting my new dragon’s back. “It’s time to introduce you to the world.”

Sabre had been a good friend to me, but I’d had to let him go. One Nadder wasn’t going to make a difference against the Viking Army. The saints had told me that God had prepared another dragon to ride into battle, and the very next day, Iradei came to me. I’d come to understand and love dragons in my time in the south, but Iradei was like nothing else. When she came to me, she was sick, injured in the leg, and weary from what must have been a very long journey. Yet she was still the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, and I was certain that she was sent to me by God. I nursed her back to health, and by the time she was well, she was as good a friend as Sabre ever had been, ready to face any foe with me and carry me to the gates of Hell and back.

I dismounted from Iradei and guided her gently towards the drawbridge, my banner still held over my head. I could see guards up on the wall above—arbalestiers with Dragon Root-tipped arrows that would knock out most dragons instantly. I could understand their prudence. A friendly dragon rider is not something you see every day. We waited while people were discussing my arrival behind the wall, until the drawbridge came down, and the gate came up. A troop of guards came out of the city and lined the drawbridge with long pikes. After them came a man in expensive-looking robes.

“Many thanks, good knight, for stopping the Viking raiders,” he said. “And even more for destroying the siege works. The city of Orléans is in your debt. Allow me to welcome you, sir. I am Jean, regent for my brother, the Duke. Anything you need—any assistance we can give, and you will have it…Now please, might we know the name of our savior?”

I was a little surprised the Regent had come out in person. I had thought he might stay back for safety’s sake. I had heard of Jean, and his brother, the Duke of Orléans, was one of the few men who were still in a Viking prison since the Battle of Agincourt. The man before me looked thin and tired, as no doubt all the residents of the besieged city had, but his eyes were bright with gratitude.

In answer to his question, I removed my helmet and let what hair I had kept fall nearly to my shoulders. The Regent’s eyes widened in surprise as I called out in a loud voice, “My name is Jehanne, daughter of Jacques Darc of Domrémy, and this is Iradei.” I patted her head again. “And we have come to liberate France.”

I heard gasps from the wall when the soldiers saw me for what I was, despite the legends. My longed-for arrival was a source of hope for every man, woman, and child in the city, but probably, many did not believe it until now. But seeing a young maiden riding a dragon under the banner of France would convince most of them.

“Then the rumors are true, then?” Jean asked. “You _are_ the Maid of Lorraine?”

“I come from a village at the borders of Lorraine, Regent,” I said, “and I have seen many trustworthy signs and visions that God has called me to lead my people in taming the wild dragons and expelling the Vikings from our lands. The Dauphin has entrusted me with this mission of breaking the siege here at Orléans…If I am the prophesied Maiden, sir, then I pray that God will use me for the good of France according to that station.”

The Regent looked surprised again. “You are very well-spoken, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and the…dragon is very convincing, but do you have any proof of your other claims? Have you met with the Dauphin?”

“Of course.” I pulled an enveloped from Iradei’s saddlebags and handed it to him. “A personal letter of endorsement from His Highness the Dauphin at his court in Chinon, marked with his seal.”

Jean inspected the letter carefully, opened it, and read it. “You have visited Chinon, then?” he asked.

“I have. I assure you he was thorough in inspecting my claims.”

“Very well. It appears to be genuine. Welcome to Orléans.”

It wasn’t long before the decree went throughout the city: _Let it be known that Jehanne of the household of Darc is a guest of the city on a personal mission from His Highness the Dauphin, and that she and her steed, Iradei, shall be given every courtesy while they stay within our walls—by the authority of His Grace, the Duke._

“So how is it that you came to ride a dragon, Mademoiselle Jehanne?” Jean asked at the most opulent evening meal they could manage under the circumstances. “No one but a Viking has ever done it in over three hundred years.”

“There will be time later to tell the full story, Regent,” I said, “but I tell you now what I already told the Dauphin. Some years ago, St. Michael the Archangel came to me in a vision along with St. Catherine and St. Margaret, instructing me to learn to ride dragons so that I could teach my people and save France from the Vikings. They have spoken to me daily ever since. When my father sought to stop me from my quest, I left home, riding on the back of a Deadly Nadder, flying south until I reached Savoy, where I could continue my work unmolested. I’ve spent the past two years staying at an abbey learning to tame wild dragons, and to read and write besides so I could make a written record of my work. Then, when the saints told me I was ready, God sent me a new dragon—one with whom I could bring His wrath against the Vikings besieging your city—and so I named her Iradei.”

 _Ira Dei_ is Latin for “wrath of God”.

Jean nodded awkwardly. I was pretty sure my fellow Frenchmen didn’t share my appreciation for Iradei’s beauty. Dragons were an object of terror for us, and even among dragons, the Night Fury was a legendary story to frighten children—a horror met only in a nightmare. But he _was_ eager to have a dragon rider fighting on the side of France, and that covered over any fear he had.

“A marvelous story, Jehanne,” he said. “So what then will you do now? You have bought us a respite, but word that the Viking garrisons were destroyed will spread, and a single dragon even as powerful as Iradei cannot stand against an army.”

“If it pleases you, Regent, tomorrow, I will fly to Blois with your report of the battle. It will take less than a morning on the wing. The Dauphin has told them to await word from Orléans. Give that word, and they will bring a convoy of troops and supplies here in two days to cut down the Viking foot-soldiers. And in the meantime, we will reinforce the garrison here against a counterattack.”

“How?” said Jean. “We have been under siege for six months. We have no supplies and precious little surplus of men and weapons.”

I smiled at him. “Isn’t it obvious, Regent?” I asked. “With dragons.”

* * *

_Isle of Berk_

_1106_

Berk awoke annoyingly early that fateful morning to screams of anger echoing across the island. Being the Chief, _I_ had to be the one to check it out. Astrid was nice enough to get out of bed and go with me, but that didn’t make me much happier.

A quick investigation revealed that the screams were coming from Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who had awakened to find themselves tied to their beds and surrounded by a gang of giggling children. This was only slightly weirder than usual.

“Oh, now I’m glad I came along,” Astrid said. “I would’ve paid good money to see this.”

“Oh, Hiccup!” Tuffnut yelled when he saw us. “Thank Thor you’re here. These little monsters swarmed us! We couldn’t get away. You have to get us out of here.” The kids giggled some more.

I stared down at the Twins. “No, I think I’ll leave you here,” I said. “It’s no less than you deserve after what you did yesterday.”

What they did was crash the missionaries’ Easter Feast. Easter was the most important feast on the Christian Calendar. There hadn’t been too much conflict so far since their second most important feast, Christmas, actually wasn’t too different from our Snoggletog, and Brother Harold and Brother Olaf hadn’t had as many converts then. But by Easter, they had enough to hold their own feast, and when Ruff and Tuff got involved, it was a total disaster.

“Come on, Chief, it wasn’t that bad,” said Ruffnut.

“Yes, it kind of was,” Astrid said.

“Yeah, it definitely was.” I reminded them of what happened: “You replaced their boiled eggs with raw ones. You switched their salt and sugar pots when they baked their cakes. And you _somehow_ sabotaged the minstrel’s fiddle to produce the mating call of a Smothering Smokebreath, and I still don’t know how that worked because mating season is in _autumn!_ ”

“Well, it’s not our fault the Christians had their big feast on Loki Day,” said Tuffnut.

“They calculate their Easter feast based on the phase of the Moon,” I snapped. “They didn’t _choose_ to have it on the first of Ostar. How do you think the village would take it if you pulled stunts like that during Thawfest?”

“Um, isn’t that what we do anyway?” Ruffnut pointed out.

I groaned: “Well…yes. But if Harold and Olaf did that to us, the village would have sent them off the island on a wild Monstrous Nightmare. You need to show our _guests_ at least that much respect. They joined us for Thawfest, didn’t they?” Honestly, I hadn’t been sure they would, but the missionaries had enjoyed Thawfest, even if they didn’t fully partake because of their fasting season.

“Ugh, fine, we’re sorry,” she said. “We won’t screw up their feasts anymore, okay? Now get us out of here!”

“I don’t know,” I said, sending a grin to Astrid. “We might be better off leaving you until you learn your lesson.” I turned to the kids. “Incidentally, why did you tie them up?” I asked. “Was it just to get them back for the feast.”

“No, today’s Hocktide Eve, Chief,” a little boy said. “Brother Harold says it’s traditional to tie men to their beds in the morning.”

“Really? Wish I’d known that earlier,” Astrid said, winking at me.

“Actually, Brother Harold says men are supposed to be tied up on Monday and women on Tuesday.”

“ _Ah_ , that’s good to know,” I said, winking back. Astrid wasn’t so enthusiastic about that.

“Hold on? Why am _I_ tied up then?” Ruffnut demanded.

“Well…we couldn’t really tell you apart,” a little girl said.

Astrid and I both burst out laughing.

“Oh, real mature, _Chief_ ,” Ruffnut growled.

“You asked for it, Ruffnut,” Astrid said. “Hiccup’s right; you need to learn your lesson. So how long do you keep them tied up like this?”

“Until they pay ransom,” another boy said with a smile.

“Ransom?!” the Twins yelled.

“A donation to the Church,” he explained.

“What? We can’t do that,” Tuffnut said. “We’re devotees of Loki.”

“Actually, I think you can,” I said.

“Uh, no, we can’t.”

“Yes, I really think you can.”

“Why?”

“Repayment for the damage you did yesterday,” told them. “I think that’s fair. That way, the monks don’t have to pay the full cost, the kids get to have their fun, and most importantly, you all stay out of my hair. Come on Astrid, let’s go back to bed.”

We turned to go. Astrid whispered in my ear, “I’ll get the rope.”

Astrid and I had married on the first of Lenzin—March on the Christian calendar. That gave us enough time for us to fly off to Dragon’s Edge to spend some time there on our own and still make it back in time for Thawfest. Mom thought it was sweet. She even called it our “honey month”, even though it was only two weeks, and I _really_ didn’t need her getting that involved in our personal life.

I was back on the job before noon, of course. The Chief doesn’t get a lot of free time. Ruffnut and Tuffnut got out of their predicament in an incident that apparently involved a basket of Easter eggs, seventeen bedsheets, three singing Terrible Terrors, and a yak. And that’s where I stopped Fishlegs when he tried to explain it. There are some things man was just not meant to know.

I told the twins to help the Christians finish cleaning up after yesterday’s mess, and then they’d be even. We were calling the whole group “the Christians” now, which was a little awkward since they were mostly people from Berk, and it felt like we were separating them from us, but they didn’t seem to mind. The children were the biggest sticking point. It was even easier to make the charge that the missionaries were leading them astray now, even if, as I suspected, half of them were just having fun playing along rather than actually believing it. It was a good thing we’d sent the expedition to Norway when we did. Seeing Christians and keepers of _Forn Sidhr_ living side by side there was even to convince even Mom. But this one was an easy call. It was a simple matter of hospitality.

“Sorry about them ruining your Easter feast, Brother Harold,” I told the monk as they cleaned. “I wish I could say they’ve learned their lesson, but honestly, I’ve been flying with them for six years, and I _still_ haven’t been able to bring them in line.”

“Thank you, Chief Hiccup,” Harold answered. “Truthfully, it’s not the worst Easter we’ve had, and the children had fun with it.”

“Well, just tell me when the next feast is, and I’ll make sure they’re on patrol that day.”

“That’s very kind of you, Chief. And our next feast is the Feast of the Ascension on the fortieth day after Easter.”

“Got it.”

“Figures he’d do that,” Ruffnut grumbled.

“No respect for Loki,” said Tuffnut. “Huh…Say, is it getting dark all of a sudden?”

I looked up. Things _did_ look a little off. The clouds were rolling in unusually thick and fast, and the wind was picking up.

“Hiccup?” I heard Fishlegs call. He was flying over fast on Meatlug. “You’re gonna want to see this!”

I ran around to where I could see the ocean and stopped short. There was a storm rolling in, but it didn’t look like any storm I’d ever seen before. It was small and compact, but very strong. The wind whipped the sea into a froth, and in the middle, a tall, white column of spray reached up from the surface and into the clouds.

“But that’s impossible,” I said. “Waterspouts only occur with winter storms.”

“Unless it’s not a storm,” Fishlegs said.

“Is there a dragon that can do that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think of any dragons that _would_. A Bewilderbeast probably could do it, but it’s not normal behavior.”

“Well, that storm definitely doesn’t look natural. Look, it’s still sunny just outside of it…I’m going in. Fishlegs, go find my mother. Cloudjumper might be the only dragon who can navigate that. I’ll get Toothless and meet you at the edge of the storm.”

“On it, Chief.”

I ran home to get Toothless and met up with Astrid and Stormfly there. Most of our best riders were already in the air by the time we joined Mom and Fishlegs at the shore. The storm looked even worse up close.

“It’s heading straight for Berk,” Astrid said. “It’ll tear the villages apart with those winds. I’ve never seen a waterspout that strong before.”

“Yeah…” I said. “Alright, something’s not right here. This is an attack. Mom, do you have any ideas?”

“I don’t recognize this, Hiccup,” she called. “I thought I knew every species of dragon, but I don’t know any that can do this.”

“Okay, possible unknown enemy,” I told everyone. “We need to find out what’s causing that waterspout. Snotlout, take Hookfang and dive under it to see if it’s a water-dwelling dragon. Mom, fly Cloudjumper up near the top, but don’t get sucked in. Toothless and I will try to fly above the cloud and look with his echolocation.”

We were about to move when Fishlegs called out, “Uh, guys? It’s it just me, or is it speeding up?”

All the fliers froze for a moment as we saw the waterspout coming closer and closer. “It’s coming right for us! Fly for it!” I yelled.

We scattered, but the waterspout sped up even more, moving faster than it should have been able to. And it was right behind me and Toothless.

“Hiccup, it’s after you!” Astrid screamed.

“Yeah, I noticed! Fly faster, bud. Plasma blast!”

Toothless turned his head and shot plasma blasts into the waterspout from top to bottom, but they didn’t do anything. We had no idea where the dragon was in it to actually hit it. We dodged, and I briefly saw Hookfang dive under and Cloudjumper fly over as fire, spines, and lava shot into the vortex, but nothing had any effect, not even telling us what the dragon was or where it was. Somehow, it kept up with our dodging and kept gaining on us. When it was practically on Toothless’s tail, we dove, picking up speed and flying out in a dead sprint, trying to get out of the storm. But the waterspout moved even faster, impossibly catching up with the fastest dragon alive and over taking us.

 _“HICCUUuuup…!”_ I heard Astrid’s scream fading like a distant echo.

 _“ASTRID!”_ I called, but I couldn’t hear any answer.

We were inside the waterspout, and I threw my arms around Toothless’s neck and held on like my life depended on it. His prosthetic tail was useless in this wind. It flapped in the gale like a banner in the breeze and nearly flew off. We spun at the mercy of the wind. The spout started to carry us higher and higher—higher than the storm had looked from the outside—so high the air started to grow thin. I could see from top to the bottom, and I still couldn’t see any dragon causing it. I couldn’t even see where we were anymore.

A chill went through me—like an icy gust of winter wind that chills you to the bone. From the way he shuddered, I could tell Toothless felt it too. Then, the storm began to clear, and Toothless and I dove again, but pretty soon, I figured out that it wasn’t Toothless who was diving. Something was _pulling_ us straight down. Toothless went into another uncontrolled spin, and we still couldn’t get out. We hurtled towards the ground faster and faster. I thought I could dots of light racing up at us. And then, suddenly, we stopped.

There was a flash of light and a few moments’ disorientation, but I was pretty sure I didn’t black out, which was worrying because I was also pretty sure we weren’t in Berk anymore. For one thing, we were lying on the ground in the middle of a circle of men in black robes and hoods who were chanting in a language I didn’t recognize. For another, beyond them, as far as I could see, we seemed to be surrounded by a camp for an army that must have been equal to the forces of the entire Archipelago—an army equipped with dragons. And for another, my family was nowhere to be seen.

One of the black robed men pointed at us and shouted triumphantly in broken Norse, “It vorked! It is Night Fury! And vith rider! Ve are saved!”

Another man took up the shout. “Dat is not just any Night Fury,” he said in the same thick accent. “Look at its tail. Dat is Toothless, and its rider is Hiccup Nightwing!”

Then, all of the men gasped in awe and, to my shock, knelt down to us. “All hail Hiccup Nightwing!” they shouted.

_“What?!”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: *Insert dramatic DreamWorks music here.*
> 
> Well, I wanted to get another chapter done for this story before The Hidden World came out, so here it is.
> 
> How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World looks pretty cool, and early reviews are excellent. It also will have no relation to this story. Again, I may include some elements, but the ending will not apply. In How to Fight a Dragon Army, Night Furies were thought to be extinct, but there are a few out there, and there are no Light Furies. I’m also going to be downplaying the “King of Dragons” aspect of Toothless after the second movie because that would make it too easy to just take over everything.
> 
> Also…I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m going to have to say that the last two seasons of Race to the Edge (which were not released when the first three chapters were written) are not canon for the purpose of this story. Race to the Edge was supposed to end after Season 6. The extra two seasons were added after the third movie was delayed for a year, and they break the worldbuilding a lot worse than the rest of the series. See the endnotes for details on that.
> 
> Finally, Last summer, I decided to do a real chapter-by-chapter outline of all of my remaining stories, and it really seems to be helping. It’s very much subject to change, but I have How to Fight a Dragon Army planned at 31 chapters, which should be a manageable length.

_Calais, France_

_June 1429_

_“What?!”_ I yelled.

Toothless staggered to his feet and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. I wasn’t doing much better. Where on Midgard _were_ we? This place didn’t look like any place that _could_ exist…Well, maybe if Dagur and Heather had _totally_ gone off the deep end, but I think I would have noticed.

One of the black-robed men stood up and approached me. “Your Majesty, it is such an honor to meet you,” he said. “You are an answer to our prayers beyond our wildest dreams.”

And…nope. I was still lost. “What in Odin’s name are you talking about?” I said. “And who are you? And where is this?”

The man flinched with each question. It reminded me of how people acted around my dad when he was angry. He bowed low and said, “I am Captain Władysław Długosz, sire, your humble and obedient servant of the First Polish Medium Cavalry.”

I looked around at the other black-robed men. There was nothing identifiable about them besides this guy’s unpronounceable name. I saw a good dozen or so dragons resting outside the circle—Monstrous Nightmares, Hobblegrunts, Windstrikers, and Singetails. “Polish?” I said, probably sounding pretty dumb by now. “I’m in Poland?”

“No, sire. We are in the field at Calais, on the coast of France,” he said.

 _France?_ I thought. I wasn’t sure I could even point to France on a map. “Uh, gods, did I hit my head?” I said to no one in particular. I turned to Toothless. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

Toothless gave me his usual dragonesque shrug.

The other black-robed men—presumably other…Polish Cavalry—had risen and stood behind Captain…behind the Captain. He himself had removed his robe to reveal vaguely Viking-looking armor underneath. “Forgive our presumption, sire. We truly did not know the ritual would summon a rider along with the Night Fury.”

I snapped to attention and reached for Inferno. “You brought us here because you want Toothless?” I demanded.

The Captain flinched again and backed up in fear. “Your Majesty, we would never think to part your royal self from the Imperial Dragon. We performed this ritual to Marzyana, the goddess of death, to summon her offspring, the Night Fury, to come to our aid, sire. We never thought that it would bring the great Toothless himself across the years, much less his rider!”

“Wait, wait, wait. _Stop!_ ” I said, and his mouth snapped shut. There was too much going on here to _begin_ to make sense of it. “Slow down—from the top. _You_ performed a…a magic ritual? To some Polish goddess? To summon me and Toothless?”

“Y-yes, sire,” he said quietly. He sounded much less confident than before. Good. “How else could the offspring of lightning and death itself be called besides and offering to the goddess of death?”

“Never mind that, now,” I said. “You summoned us? To France?”

“Yes, sire.”

“…Why?”

“Sire, the Viking Empire faces a grave threat—a threat that none can stand against. The one they call… _Joan the Maiden_. Only a Night Fury has the power to stop her.”

Odin, what was _with_ this guy? “The Viking _Empire_? What Empire?”

“The Empire of Berk, sire. Masters of the Air and Sea. Your people have conquered Sweden, Poland, England, Germany—”

“We haven’t conquered _anything!_ ” I shouted. “We’re just one island!”

Suddenly, the Polish soldiers laughed. That was probably the most nonsensical thing that happened since we arrived here.

“Uh, what did I say?” I asked.

The Captain motioned for the other soldiers to back away, and they quickly returned to the…to _their_ dragons, it looked like. This many armed dragon riders? It was like Drago Bludvist all over again. “Sire, this will be difficult to explain,” he said. “I don’t fully understand it myself, but it appears that you have traveled across time as well as distance.”

“Time? What are you talking about?”

“I mean that you are Hiccup III of the Royal House of Haddock, the Nightwing, Tamer of Dragons, and founder of the Great Viking Empire—”

“I’m the chief of an island,” I insisted.

“Yes, but to us, you are a legend sung of in old songs, sire. Marzyana has brought you to us from many years the past in our hour of need.”

I stumbled, leaning on Toothless for support, and he looked up at me, concerned. “The past?” I said. “Many years? What year is it?”

“1429, sire.”

My pulse started to race. “1429?” I said. “What, on the Polish calendar?”

“No sire, all years are measured on the Christian calendar.”

“But—but—but it’s supposed to be the year 1106. That’s over— _three hundred years!_ ” I didn’t even think to draw Inferno. I just grabbed the man by his collar and shook him. “You’re saying I’ve been gone for three hundred years?!”

“My sincerest apologies, sire—”

“Apologies!” I shouted. “Everyone I know is _dead!_ ”

“We only meant to summon a Night Fury,” he whimpered. “We didn’t know the ritual would call its rider!”

“That doesn’t do me any good now, does it. Tell me this ritual of yours works in reverse.”

“I…I don’t know.”

This time, I _did_ draw Inferno. I shoved the Captain to the ground, lit my flaming sword and pointed it at his throat. “You’d _better_ have a way to send me back home—to…to my own time,” I growled. I was only half aware of the whistling sound as Toothless powered up a plasma blast.

“I—I don’t—But there—there must be a way, sire!” he babbled. “You—you can’t live out your life here—now. History records you lived to a ripe old age on Berk! You must have gone back! Of course!” He laughed nervously. “You can’t have lived out your life there— _then_ —if you were stuck here and now. We just have to figure out how we did it…will do it…will have done it?”

My head was starting to hurt. He was saying that…there were apparently historical accounts of my life. And he was saying they were proof that I’d made it home somehow—and I’d guess not too far in the…future. Ugh. So he was proving that something that hadn’t happened yet _would_ happen in the future because…history books said it already happened? I didn’t know what was worse: how confusing that was, or the fact that it was starting to make sense.

Okay, think. If I wasn’t there in the past, then I couldn’t have—apparently—built the “Great Viking Empire”, and then, these Polish soldiers wouldn’t be here to do the ritual in the first place. But if they never did the ritual, then I would have stayed in the past and built the Empire, and they would have been here…

And now my headache was getting worse. Time travel seemed to have a supernatural power to do that to you just by thinking about it.

I lowered my sword. I saw the fear in the Captain’s eyes and suddenly realized I must look like the legendary, bloodthirsty Viking conqueror Hiccup Nightwing to him. There was my dad’s vindictive side showing through again. “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “So you did a magic ritual to bring me to the future because you think I can fight an enemy that an entire _empire_ of Vikings can’t?”

“Not just any enemy, sire,” he said. “This is an enemy who rides a Night Fury of her own—an enemy who has taught the French to ride _dragons_ of their own.”

“Another Night Fury?” I said. Toothless croaked an interested reply. I reached down to help the Captain to his feet. “Why didn’t you say that first? Tell me everything!”

The Captain smiled uneasily. “Come, sire,” he said. “I’m afraid our provisions will be poor compared with what you are used to, but let us eat. It is quite the tale.”

The food actually wasn’t too bad. With dragons around, you were always sure to have fresh roasted meat. And they had some kind of root I didn’t recognize called a “potato” that went really well with it. The Captain also taught me how to pronounce his name properly. _Vwa-di-swaf Dwu-gosh._ I hoped I wouldn’t have to learn Polish for this whole mess.

And, although I had to keep stopping him for historical information, he explained what was happening. The Viking Empire had ranged far and wide over the past three hundred years, conquering the entire northern half of Europe and building colonies across the ocean, even past where Leif Erickson had gone. Its advance was halted only by armies with something called cannons, which shot lead balls at impossible speeds that could tear clean through a dragon’s body. I didn’t believe that at first, but then Captain Długosz showed me one of their hand cannons. Once I figured out how it worked, the possibilities were shocking.

Right now, the Empire was in the middle of a long campaign to take over France. Captain Długosz claimed that “we” were winning. Despite the French cannons, we had a near-endless supply of dragons and had guarded the secrets of riding them all this time. But then, a woman named Joan the Maiden—or Joan of Arc—appeared out of nowhere riding a Night Fury and had single-handedly decimated an entire squadron of Nadders and Typhoomerangs. Or so said the rumors. Apparently, no Viking had gotten close enough to get a good look at her and lived. But they said she was now teaching the French army to ride dragons and beating the Vikings back from city after city.

“I’m still hearing that it’s only one woman on one dragon,” I said when he finished his tale.

“It’s not just the Maiden, sire,” he said. “It’s not even just the French riding dragons. It’s about _morale_. Joan of Arc has become a figurehead for the French—a figurehead we can’t kill because her Night Fury is faster than any dragon we possess, even faster than the royal Snow Furies. The French claim that the Night Fury is a gift sent by God to the one He deems worthy, and some of the Christian Vikings are starting to believe it—that their God is turning against us. And some followers of _Forn Sidhr_ believe that the Night Fury truly _is_ the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself—a demon that can’t be killed.”

The pieces finally fell into place. I set my food down and looked him in the eye. “Except by another Night Fury,” I said.

Captain Długosz suddenly became uneasy. “I don’t think that would be the _only_ way, sire, but—”

“Don’t try to hide it,” I said, standing up. “ _You_ performed a ritual to _your_ goddess of death to summon the offspring of lightning and death itself to fight _your_ war for you. I don’t know if Hela was listening in, or if it was just a coincidence, but you’ve bought into the stories as much as the rest of them. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t help you.” I turned to go.

Długosz scrambled to his feet. “Please, Your Majesty, the Viking Empire needs you!”

I stopped and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay, first, it’s not ‘Your Majesty,’” I said, turning to face him. “It’s ‘Chief.’ And second, _I don_ _’t kill dragons_. _Surely_ the old stories told you that. They can’t have been mangled _that_ badly.”

“Well…yes, of course, sire—er…Chief,” he said. “But you don’t need to kill the dragon. Kill Joan of Arc! If you can bring her steed back unharmed, so much the better.”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand, do you? I don’t kill _people_ either. I don’t know about your…your _Emperor_ , but that’s not the way I do things as Chief.”

“But you do kill when it’s necessary,” he insisted. “Didn’t you kill Drago Bludvist when he threatened Berk?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t. He ran for it after Toothless defeated his Bewilderbeast.”

“What? But…but what about the Grimborn Brothers?”

I groaned. “Viggo fell in that volcano by accident. And _he_ killed Ryker, not me.”

“And Grimmel the Grisly?”

“Who?”

Długosz was silent for a moment. “…Oh. Uh…I mean to say, Chief, would you not kill to protect the people you love? To defend your—er, island?”

“Of course I would. If I had to. But your Joan of Arc isn’t a threat to me, or my family—or, Hel, even the Empire. _You_ _’re_ the aggressors here, moving in and trying to attack _her_ home. Why should I help you take over her homeland?”

“But you’re a Viking!” he shouted.

I stood still and gave Długosz a glare I usually reserved for enemies, and I took a step towards him. His men quailed and cringed back. “Vikings are about more than conquering and pillaging,” I told him quietly, “but unfortunately, it looks like my people have forgotten that. I wanted Berk to be the voice of peace, but after three hundred years, they seem to have lost their way. I’m not the great dragon-riding conqueror you think I am, but since I’m _apparently_ going to be stuck here for a while, I’m going to fix it _my_ way.

“So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find this Joan of Arc. And I’m going to _talk_ to her. I’m going to try to reach some kind of understanding with her, and between France and the Vikings, and if I’m lucky, I’ll see if I can get her to tell me where she found her Night Fury, so maybe this mess won’t be a complete waste.

“And here’s what I want _you_ to do, Captain Długosz, if you’re so eager to follow me. I want you to go home. Go back to wherever you found that ritual you used, and figure out a way to send me back to my own time. And if your commanders have a problem with that, uh…” I stopped and considered a couple options. I didn’t want to get more mixed up in this than I already was. In the end, I came up with a hands-off solution. I went back to Toothless and scratched his back until I found a loose scale ready to be shed. “Here.” I handed the scale to him, jet-black and about the size of my palm. Only Night Furies had scales that color. “If your story’s true, this is probably some legendary token of kingly authority or something.”

Captain Długosz’s eyes widened, and he took the scale reverently. It was depressing how right I was. He saluted me and said, “I am honored, sire. I apologize for my impudence. I was poorly informed. If this be your wish, I will assuredly carry it out.”

“Uh, good.” I climbed back on Toothless’s back. “We’re done here, bud,” I said. “Let’s ride.” With a rush of wind, we took off and streaked away into the night.

* * *

_Loire Valley, France_

I looked out at the would-be fliers assembled on the green amid the ruins of Patay. Men and boys, some too old to fight in the regular army, or too young. Two women—war widows or orphans inspired by my campaign who had no family to stop them. Thrice as many I suspected of being women in men’s clothing. They were a motley group, but they would do. There were certainly more than last time, all eager for a glimpse of the Maid of Lorraine and her Night Fury.

The Vikings had a long tradition of shield maidens, of course. There were few in France, but women could find their place more easily in a dragon army where wits mattered more than strength, and I welcomed them. Those who remained of the flights from Meung and Orléans were patrolling the area around the city while they were building up their own defenses. My charge, as always, was training the new riders.

“The Dauphin commends your courage and loyalty,” I called to the group. “The dragon-riders will be France’s salvation. Our numbers are growing daily, and with these here, we will have enough to push farther north into Viking territory, and then, if God wills it, on to Reims!”

The crowd cheered. We should be so lucky, I thought. I’d spent most of the past few weeks flying up and down the Loire Valley, giving lessons on dragon-riding to the local towns and mustering an army to throw the Vikings out of the region. It was important work, but I really thought we should be more on the offensive. The Dauphin was hesitating, which annoyed me, though I remained civil around him. I urged him to push forward against the Viking lines, but strange reports came from the north, and when he heard them, he wished to proceed with the greatest caution, though it sometimes it seemed like disinterest to me.

Patay was the farthest north we’d fought. The Vikings controlled everything north of the Loire and parts of the south bank. And all of Aquitaine. Even Bar was officially under their control. They just hadn’t managed to stamp the French loyalty out of us yet. The towns on the Loire itself, like Orléans, were all under siege, Viking-occupied, or simply destroyed. Our great victory in those weeks was to liberate the Loire valley and restore our access to the waterway, but His Highness did not push north beyond what was needed to build defenses there.

“I have been guided on this path by St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Margaret,” I continued. “I firmly believe God is with us and will lead us to victory, but it is His will to humble the Vikings with their own weapons, the dragons, and for France to stand as a power equal to her neighbors in His name.

“I have come to teach you the Vikings’ greatest secret: how to train a dragon. These skills have been hard-won through wits and experience.” And a few minor scars, I thought. The saints had told me carefully where I was to go and what I was to do, but they left the details for me to figure out—to understand the beasts personally as Hiccup Nightwing had done long ago. But three years of work plus having seen the Vikings’ tactics for my whole life had made me very competent by the time I broke the siege at Orléans.

I waved Iradei over to me and then had her light a torch, which I waved over my head, signaling the fliers to bring down the wild dragons they had caught. They were a mixed group of mostly less useful species. The stories said that Nadders were once among the most common dragons in Europe, but the Vikings had long since brought most of them into their fold. I saw Timberjacks and Gronkles—working dragons not suited to pitched combat, near-intractable Grim Gnasher scavengers, difficult-to-handle two-headed Zipplebacks, and simply so-so fighters like Raincutters.

Even so, the crowd backed away from the dragons, eyeing them nervously. Usually, few Frenchmen ever got this close to a dragon and lived. I kept going to reassure them. “We’ve held this disadvantage for a long time,” I said. “You may ask why, when Vikings have been riding dragons for three hundred years, has no one else been able to master them? The answer is that they hide behind plausible lies. They do not master them. A dragon will not be mastered any more than a lion will.” I ran my hands down Iradei’s back as she stood tall and proud, trying to show them how she was an equal, never a servant. “The dragon is stronger than we, and she knows it. You may try to master her, harness her, and even command her, but you will never earn her loyalty that way. She will never _serve_ willingly. But unlike a lion, she will make fast friends with humans, like a playful puppy.”

I picked up a javelin and threw it to the side as hard as I could. “Iradei, fetch!” I said, and she bounded off, looking almost exactly like an enormous dog as she reached it, picked it up in her teeth, and brought it back to me. “Good girl,” I said as the crowd stared in awe.

There were a good deal more would-be riders than dragons, so I said, “Those of you who are willing to go first, each of you line up with a dragon, but don’t approach it yet. This is very important to understand: Dragons are among the most intelligent of God’s creatures. They can sense your intentions, and they have excellent vision. Even wild dragons can identify most weapons by sight. They will act aggressively if you show even a knife. But dragons are also very social creatures, used to living in large nests. Most species will _not_ attack if you approach them unarmed. Only very territorial ones like Changewings and Whispering Deaths that are unsuitable for riding—Or if they are trained to attack by their riders.

“The key to approaching a wild dragon is trust. You must show a dragon trust to receive it in return. Be careful of eye contact. They see eye contact as a challenge if it is not from someone of their flock. To befriend a dragon, you must approach it submissively. When you are near it, lower your eyes and then let it come to you. If it continues to act aggressively—growling, stamping at the earth—back away quickly. It may be sick or injured, or a male in rut, or a mother protecting her hatchlings, or a feral dragon who was abused by a former owner. Every dragon is different, and you must keep that in mind.

“But if, on the other hand, you approach a dragon, and he comes to you and touches you with his snout, that means he has accepted you into his flock, and you may interact with him as safely as any hunting dog—or at least like a very large house-cat.”

I demonstrated the procedure with Iradei and then told the riders to approach their own dragons. I walked through the middle of the group, keeping watch for any trouble, while Iradei circled around the outside. The reaction when they began to see was always a treat to behold, as the soldiers gaped in shock and then leaped with joy at how easy it was to befriend a wild dragon.

“Good. Good. See, he likes you,” I said as I passed each of the riders in turn. “Yes, just like that. Easy! Okay, back away. Stay there and wait for her to make a move. How do I know it’s a her? You can tell by the head crest. They’re smaller in females. You’re doing great there! Good. Whoa, whoa! Stop! Stop!”

A young man was starting to panic in the face of a grinning Snafflefang. I could see the signs almost before it happened. He stumbled backwards, waving his arms wildly, trying to fend off the beast. It growled and arched its back and turned sideways, swinging its spiked, mace-like tail at him. The other dragons started scatterning.

“Ah! Get away! Get away!” he shouted.

“Hold still! You’re scaring him!” I yelled. I looped around to reach him from the Snafflefang’s blind spot, trying to get him out of danger.

“Help me! I need—I need a sword!” he cried.

“I said stay still!”

The Snafflebang bounded forward. It hissed, readying a lava blast.

“No! Stop!” I slid on the dirt between dragon and soldier, coming up beside him holding out my hands in a placating position, but unlike him, I held them still. At the same moment, I whistled for Iradei. She reached me in one graceful leap and shot a plasma blast at the ground between me and the Snafflefang. It stopped in its tracks, flinching back. It tried to swing its tail at Iradei, but she pushed herself backwards and shot another plasma blast at the ground—a line in the dirt.

When the dragon held still, I lowered one hand to motion at the soldier behind me. “You. Back away slowly, and don’t make any sudden movements,” I ordered. For the Snafflefang, I took a tentative step forward and spoke soothingly. “It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you. You just scared him. That’s all. Come here. It’ll be alright.” I took another small step or two forward, and when the dragon held his ground, I bowed to him and waited. It took him several minutes, but he finally came to me.

When I stroked his hide, I could feel the scars, not visible when he was thrashing about. Hunters’ traps. They were distinctive even when they weren’t crippling. I could tell he was old from the size of his horns and the texture of his skin. “You’ve had a hard life, haven’t you,” I said. I motioned to a gap in the lines. “Go on. Go home and live in peace. We can make do without you.”

He started to walk for the gap in the lines. No one approached him, and he soon took to the air and flew away.

“Mark that one, and leave him be!” I called to anyone who would listen. “His eyes have seen enough trouble already.” Then, I turned to the young soldier who had caused the trouble. “Go home,” I told him. “Back to the town. You don’t want to do that again. You can try some other time, but not today. Wait until you’re calmer, and with a different group of dragons.” The young man was too embarrassed to respond and ran off, but later that night, his brother came to me and thanked me for saving him. He would come around when he had time to recover mentally, he said.

The rest of the dragons had calmed and were starting to come back to the group, so I was able to continue with the lesson, though it was a challenge when there was so much to teach them. After all this time, Frenchmen only knew how to kill dragons, not how to care for them.

“…The wings membranes are the most vulnerable. They have thin skin, they’re the biggest targets, and they’re hard to armor, especially on the underside. Altitude is your friend there. Arrows can’t reach very high, and Vikings use musket and cannon far less than we do…”

“…A dragon’s teeth need to be kept well-cared for. A rotten tooth can keep a dragon from eating and make them violent with pain, and the rot can spread. If you have to pull a tooth, they fight. Approach from the side, use a pair of fire tongs, and pull quickly…”

Then, there was the matter of how to actually fight on dragonback, though for that, I had Jean and Bertrand to help—the two soldiers who had been my protectors and companions ever since my return to France. They’d caught on to the close-quarters flying even faster than Iradei and I had.

The Vikings had complex organizational structures in their armies, with light, medium, and heavy cavalry, fast strike squadrons, coastal defense groups, and whole auxiliary wings of dragons more suited for working than fighting—Gronkles for smelting, Armorwings for welding, Whispering Deaths for digging, and more. But we could ill afford such specialization when nearly every rider we could find would have to be sent to the lines to face the Viking hordes, so we could only cover the basics.

“…Archers, conserve your Dragonroot and Dragonsbane. It’s harder to shoot from the air,” I said. Both plants were hard to grow this far this far south and had to be rationed carefully. “Learn from the Vikings’ tactics. They’ve had centuries to perfect them. But don’t rely wholly on them. When it’s dragon against dragon, all the old is new again…”

“…The best weapon you can add to a dragon’s own natural defenses is a long lance,” Bertrand instructed. “Something with more reach than your dragon’s wings or jaws…”

“…If you can get above your opponent, dropping a handful of flechettes can be devastating, but the Vikings are learning to watch out for that. They aren’t used to fighting other dragons, but they aren’t stupid, either…”

Night was falling on our second day in Patay when the lookout sounded the alarm.

“Viking reinforcements! Strike squadron! Singetails and Stormcutters!”

That wasn’t good. Singetails were a pain in the neck. They had no blind spot and could shoot fire in any direction. And Stormcutters were the most maneuverable dragons their size. If they reached Patay, they could outflank us easily in a confined area.

“Jean! Bertrand!” I called. “Mount up and assemble the squadron. Every rider who won’t be a burden to us. We ride to meet them.”

Technically, Bertrand was in charge of the squadron, but he usually followed my lead. He repeated my orders, and in minutes, we were ready to ride. Both captains rode magnificent steeds in their own right. Jean rode Ascia, a Monstrous Nightmare—another rarity in these parts. And Bertrand’s dragon was even rarer: a sturdy Titan Wing Thunderclaw named Malleus.

The Viking warriors were about three miles away when we took to the air. We could see them approaching fast, only a minute out, faces covered with war paint, human and dragon alike. I wished I could bear the banner for this, but it would slow Iradei down, so Jean took it instead, the Fleur-de-Lis flying in defiance of the attackers.

“All speed forward!” Bertrand shouted.

“All speed forward,” I repeated. “Remember the training. Spear the riders, and rake their wings before they can rake yours.”

It was unnerving, a charge like this. Those who had been with me from the beginning of the Loire campaign were tense, but reliable. The new recruits—well, they were at the back for a reason. We would see which ones proved their mettle.

“Lances ready!” Bertrand bellowed. Dozens of specially-made dragon-borne lances came up, aimed at the enemy. “Fire at the ready! And… _break!_ ”

That was the signal for the fastest dragons to pull away from the charge. Iradei pulled up, firing a plasma blast into the heart of the Viking formation—the kind that exploded in midair and could knock a dragon out of the sky without even touching it. A couple of Nadders and other fast fliers pulled up with us, but we were using our own strategy.

Iradei was underwhelming as a fighter in close quarters, given her reputation, but when she could build up her speed for fast strikes, hit-and-fly, she was unstoppable. Flying high over the formation, she flopped over, folded her wings, and I pressed against her as she dropped into a dive like a falcon, so fast that it seemed to rip the air from my lungs. Another plasma blast, not fired until we could see the yellow of the eyes of the Titan Wing Stormcutter than led the Viking attack and hitting it dead on. Iradei could hit a stationary target from a mile away, but a moving target was trickier. I held tight as she rolled, dodging arrows and fireballs alike as we dropped under the battle; then Iradei promptly unfurled her wings and pulled up. The less time spent underneath the enemy, the better.

Both sides lost people—dragons and riders. It was inevitable. But Iradei and I worked to tip the scales in our favor. We kept fighting even as I felt arrows whizz by my ears. None hit either of us, though, and we were never in range for long. Iradei could outfly an arrow when she really got going unless it came from someone giving chase, and as night was falling, we could rely on her stealth, too.

The fight only took a few minutes, and despite some losses, we routed the Vikings. Most of them were already running when Iradei suddenly jerked around, twisting in midair so fast she nearly threw me off.

“Iradei, what is it?” I shouted, but then I saw. She dove and zeroed in on a Stormcutter that was threatening Jean and Ascia. With a shriek, she distracted it away from them. It wasn’t our usual strategy, but I trusted her, and she didn’t steer me wrong. The Stormcutter turned, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid a plasma blast to the face. He was still in the air, but he flew away, and with that, the Vikings were gone.

“Good girl, Iradei,” I said.

A cheer went up from our remaining riders, and I couldn’t help but join in. Some of them chanted my name, or Iradei’s. Even after seeing the Vikings defeated by the squadron from Meung, the new riders of Patay were emboldened by fighting the Vikings off for themselves.

“Thank you, Jehanne,” Jean called to me as we circled to the ground.

“Thank Iradei,” I said. “She’s the one who saw you were in trouble and got you out of it.”

“Then thank you, Iradei,” he replied. “Here, take the banner, Jehanne.”

I held the banner up proudly. I always felt more natural with it than a sword. And I called to the squadron: “Keep an eye out in case they try to flank us. And take the gear from the downed dragons. We need all the spares we can get. Praise be to God, for He has brought us victory this day!”

The riders cheered again. I dismounted and walked with Iradei through the group, making sure there were no last minute surprises. It was as we were gathering the Vikings’ gear that Bertrand called out to me, “Mademoiselle Jehanne, we caught one alive!”

I hurried over to him with Iradei by my side. Bertrand had a Viking disarmed and on his knees before him. We strode in front of him, and the Viking gasped and quailed before us, but then he shouted something that sounded like, “Thank you!”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s English,” the Bertrand said. “He means _piti_ _é_. Mercy.”

“Yes! Mercy!” the soldier repeated.

With a flick of my wrist, I motioned Bertrand to put his sword away. Iradei would protect me from any danger. _“My Norse is better,”_ I told the Viking. I’d made sure to study enough to get by at the abbey.

 _“You…you are Joan of Arc. The Night Fury rider,”_ he said in halting Norse.

 _“It’s Jehanne Romée,”_ I corrected. _“Your name?”_

_“Geoffrey—Sir Geoffrey of Exeter, the First English Strike Squadron, Wessex Division. I…am sorry, Fröken. I did not believe the rumors.”_

I looked back and forth with Jean and Bertrand. _“What rumors?”_ I said.

 _“That God has turned against the Empire. That He has gifted France with a Night Fury. I thought it was…I don’t know the word._ Propaganda. _Stories to scare us._ _”_

_“Really? I thought my reputation had spread farther that this. They are not rumors, Sir Geoffrey of Exeter. God Himself has sent me on this mission.”_

_“There are…there are many rumors among the Norsemen, and others,”_ he replied. _“No one is sure what to believe. Even rumours of dark deeds done in the north, Fröken. Black masses and pagan rituals. At first we thought they were in our favour, but now…”_ He looked Iradei in the eye. _“I fear I see God’s wrath upon us.”_

I looked to Jean and Bertrand again. He wasn’t making any sense. Iradei certainly couldn’t have anything to do with some pagan ritual in England. Perhaps he was delirious with fear. Bertrand, however, seemed to know something. _“You aren’t the first to speak of such things,”_ he took over. _“Tell us what you know.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Race to the Edge. Specific differences from Seasons 7 and 8 of the TV show include:
> 
> Viggo died by falling into the volcano. The Dragon Eye was lost (although Hiccup could replace it). Dragon’s Edge was destroyed by the eruption.
> 
> Johann is still good.
> 
> The “Wingmaidens” exist, but did not fly in Hiccup’s time. Krogan still made trouble, but there were never any enemy dragon riders; only the Hooligans and the Berserkers rode dragons in Hiccup’s time.
> 
> The Bewilderbeast skeleton on Vanaheim was normal-sized, not half a mile long. The Dragon Eye never showed the Bewilderbeast, and while there may have been a Bewilderbeast under Berserker Island, it didn’t summon all the dragons in the Archipelago. (Both would have given away too many clues for the second movie.)
> 
> Valka’s Bewilderbeast was not grown from the egg she collected, if an egg was given to her at all; Drago already had his Bewilderbeast, too.


End file.
